


mirror image

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Bloodplay, Bondage, F/F, Internalized Homophobia, Knifeplay, Mindfuck, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 18:58:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19707466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Yelena only knows of one way to fix herself.





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [summerdayghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerdayghost/gifts).



> Set post- _Breakdown_.

A slash of scarlet hair on white sheets. A black rope, stark against pale skin, binding her wrists above her head, another one wrapped around her waist to pin her to the bed, her ankles similarly cuffed and tied. A blindfold, heavy-duty, wrapped around her head, insulated to completely block out light. Bruising on her ribs, on her arms, a pinpoint of blood on her neck where the needle had gone in and a spreading bruise surrounding it. A tremor, running through her body, as she slowly rose back to consciousness.

Yelena Belova, the Black Widow, sat on a stool with the tools of her trade laid out on a table beside her, and waited.

She could tell the instant Romanova came fully awake from the tension that immediately gripped her body, and her muscles flexing as she tested the integrity of the ropes that bound her with her superhuman strength. Yelena had planned ahead, though. She'd special-ordered these reinforced ropes, and Romanova, with her lesser form of the supersoldier serum, could not break them.

Romanova's throat bobbed as she swallowed and stopped her explorations down that particular avenue. Yelena watched as she forced her body to relax, muscle by muscle, settling into the bed, setting her shoulders. Yelena knew that posture, that sort of langour; they were taught it in the Red Room, during their sessions on how to resist torture. Relax, let your mind rise above the pain, and scream if you have to.

Yelena wanted to make Romanova scream, one way or another.

Catlike, Yelena rose from her stool and stole closer to Romanova, whose head turned toward her. She had been as silent as she could, silent enough to fool many, but not Romanova. Spite and—something else, unknown to her—burned inside Yelena, but all she did was firmly run her finger against the sole of Romanova's foot. Her toes curled down: the flexor plantar reflex. It was uncontrollable. She couldn't help it.  
Yelena wanted her to feel helpless. Like Yelena had.

Romanova had ballerina's feet, permanently battered, much like Yelena's, although Yelena's dance practice had always been secondary to her other training, and slim, delicate ankles, with strong calf muscles that trembled when Yelena stroked them. Her skin was soft and without flaw, no moles or scars from her ankles to her thighs, where the muscles had gone rigid under Yelena's hands. That was one difference between them, then; Yelena had a spray of freckles on the back of her left leg, and she had scars, of course. She was only human.

She was a natural redhead, a dusting of that same scarlet between her legs. Yelena's heartbeat kicked up a notch as she looked, and her mouth filled with saliva when she thought about—but no. Those were thoughts Romanova had put into her brain when she'd taken Yelena's mind away from her. Those weren't Yelena's thoughts. They were Romanova's.

Her hips were slimmer than Yelena's, her torso less of an hourglass, but still compelling, still exquisite, like a creature carved from marble. All muscle, like Yelena. Her breasts weren't as full; a spiteful part of Yelena noted they had started to sag a little. Romanova was aging. Growing insignificant. Ready for a successor.

(Even Yelena couldn't make herself believe it.)

But then there was her face. The elegant column of her neck, and the straight line of her nose, those sharp cheekbones and strong jaw, framed by crimson hair. Lips parted, tense. Yelena had seen that face, staring back at her from the mirror, whispering to her, My name is—my name is—Yelena Belova, Yelena Belova—  
Her knuckles hurt in memory where the shards of the mirror had sliced through her skin, and Yelena flexed her hands, swallowing hard.

She picked up the knife.

"Water."

Romanova's voice was a thready whisper. Before she let herself think about it, Yelena swapped out the knife for a water bottle with a squeeze lid and poured out a stream of water into Romanova's mouth. Romanova swallowed greedily—the drug Yelena had given her led to dry mouth—and Yelena thought distantly, I could waterboard her. She knew how. She knew exactly how terrifying it was, even for someone who knew what was happening; instinct kicked in, the animal inside fighting with all its might to get away from the drowning waters.

But she wouldn't be able to see Romanova's face, that face which wasn't hers, if she did that. No. Better to stick with her original plan.

"Thank you," Romanova said when Yelena set the water bottle back down. Then, her voice almost dry, "Can I at least know who my captor is?"

"You know who I am," Yelena said.

Silence.

"Yes," Romanova said in Russian, quietly. "I do. So this is revenge."

"Not revenge. Punishment."

The knife was in Yelena's hand again. It was trembling. To hear Romanova's voice, speaking Russian—their accents in English were different enough to differentiate them, but in their native tongue, ah! Identical.

My name is Yelena Belova—

"What's the difference?"

"Revenge is something one person arbitrarily decides to do to the other. Punishment is justice.

And this is the beginning of your punishment."

Yelena set the knife against Romanova's cheekbone, just under the blindfold, and sliced.

It was just deep enough to draw blood, but Yelena knew from experience that most women reacted to injuries to their face like they were much graver wounds than they really were; some psychological damage to their perceived worth with the destruction of their beauty. Romanova's jaw tensed but she said nothing.

Yelena watched the bloody droplets roll down her cheek into her hairline, where they absorbed and matted, a deeper red-brown against the crimson of her hair.  
Something was wrong. Yelena shuddered hard enough she nearly dropped the knife. This wasn't going to work. Romanova had lived through this and worse. There was nothing Yelena could do to hurt her that hadn't already been tried. There was nothing Yelena could do to beat her, to be better than her, to show her what a mistake she had made when she had raped Yelena's mind and twisted her into this useless thing who couldn't remember who she was or why she was there half the time—

Yelena screamed and stabbed the knife down.

It buried itself in the bed right next to Romanova's head. She twitched away, the first sign of surprise Yelena had wrung out of her.

Yelena's shifting mind caught on one word: rape. And it caught on those thoughts Romanova had buried within her mind, those dirty thoughts, and she thought, Yes.

She rubbed her fingers in the cut on Romanova's cheek, smearing the blood down her face and earning a hiss from her lips, and slipped her bloodied fingers inside her mouth.

"Bite and I'll kill you," she said. "Suck on them. Like you're sucking a cock. I know you can do it."

Romanova's head turned slightly, but she didn't bite; instead, her tongue swirled around Yelena's fingers, licking her own blood off them, and her lips closed around them and sucked. Yelena had been taught how to suck cock but had no real passion for it; Romanova seemed to do it well enough, if this was any indication. She pressed her fingers further inside Romanova's mouth until she gagged, then withdrew, saliva dripping down her fingers.

"I want," she said, and stopped. To make you come. To make you fall apart. To make you helpless at my touch.

"What do you want, Yelena?" Romanova's voice was hoarse.

Yelena's breath was coming short.

"Yelena?"

She knelt on the bed and touched Romanova's stomach, tracing a circle around her navel, then, forcing herself not to think, leaned over and took Romanova's nipple in her mouth.

Romanova made a sound of shock, the second true indication of surprise that night, and her back arched, willingly or not, Yelena wasn't sure. She'd never touched another woman like this, had never had the warm weight of a woman's breast in her hand, had never cupped it and squeezed it gently and lapped little circles around the nipple before grazing it with her teeth just enough to make Romanova twitch. Her lips on Romanova's sternum, then dropping kisses down her stomach as Yelena caressed her breasts.

Yelena's clothes were confining, the familiar reinforced leather of her two-piece catsuit suddenly tight on her. She squeezed her thighs together rhythmically, feeling a pressure she only vaguely understood in her groin.

"Fuck," Yelena breathed, and it took her a minute to realize it wasn't her at all, but Romanova, Romanova's voice shaking in pleasure. Romanova shuddered and said—Yelena recognized it for her voice this time—"You don't have to do this, Yelena."

"I do, though," Yelena said. "You don't understand. We're two different people. I have to prove it."

And what could prove it better than sex, that expression of raw physicality? It was a little bit like fighting, sex. And fighting was centering; fighting kept Yelena in her body and the pain of injury kept her sane. Maybe pleasure would do the same thing.

She stripped out her clothes with the quick efficiency she used when on a mission, but took her PSM out of its holster. It was loaded. Yelena took the risk of going around with live weapons; it was better than the alternative of being caught without them.

She wanted—she wanted Romanova's hands on her, but she knew it was too risky. Something else.

First she wanted to see something. She sat between Romanova's legs and nudged them apart with the snub-nosed pistol. Romanova tried to clamp her legs together, but Yelena pried them apart, and revealed Romanova's sex. Her cunt. Yelena had always hated that word, such a blunt insult in English, but it was appropriate for the trembling anger and desire she felt right then.

Yelena knew the medical terms for the various parts of female anatomy, but it was something else to see them glistening before her, pink lips puffy and, when Yelena parted them with her fingers, her clit swollen and the area around her entrance wet. Yelena swallowed hard, touched the wet part to dampen her finger, swirled it around Romanova's clit, which she knew was supposed to feel good.

Romanova's leg kicked, though it was too tied down to go anywhere.

"Don't," she said sharply.

"Don't tell me what to do," Yelena said in a cold, deadly voice, and slipped her finger down and thrust two of them inside Romanova's dripping cunt.

Romanova cried out and Yelena didn't care, just let it drive her as she thrust her fingers inside Romanova, listening to the slick noise it made, her head spinning, her heart pounding, the place between her legs throbbing. The heel of her palm was crushed against Romanova's clit and it didn't occur to Yelena what that might feel like until Romanova's hips rose to meet Yelena's hand and her entire body tensed and quivered, her cunt convulsing painfully around Yelena's fingers.

Yelena had never known it was supposed to do that.

She tugged her hand free and stared at the sticky fluids on her fingers. A strange part of her wanted to taste them, but that was disgusting, degrading. That was for Romanova.

Yelena moved to straddle Romanova's head and said, "This is fitting. I don't want to see your face again."

"Oh, Yelena," Romanova said softly, before Yelena jammed the PSM against her side and said, "If you don't make me come I'll shoot you."

That was motivation enough for Romanova, who set about making Yelena feel quite unlike how she'd ever felt before.

Sex was not new to Yelena. She was not a honeypot girl, her talents lying more in the arenas of violence and destruction, but it was something she'd had to do on missions before. And yet—this was so completely different, Romanova's tongue lapping at her entrance, at her clit, like a piercing version of the dull sensation of pleasure Yelena had sometimes felt during her rendezvous with her targets. Yelena's finger twitched on the PSM's trigger before she slid it free and set the pistol down, placing her hands flat against the bed to brace herself.

Wet sounds, little moans, coming from Yelena herself, or was it Romanova? Hard to say; Yelena had been wrong, comparing sex to fighting. In this, during sex, they melded together, Yelena's body and Romanova's tongue meeting and melting into one star of pleasure as Yelena rocked back and forth on Romanova's face, gasping and quivering. There was tension in her groin like the agonizing seconds before a knife hit its target, like the moments before the blood rose to the surface on Romanova's cheek when the blade parted her skin. Then it snapped like a whip and Yelena cried out, her fingernails digging into Romanova's hips, trembling.

She didn't have enough time to come down before Romanova took her by the thighs and flung her bodily off the bed.

So much for those reinforced ropes, Yelena thought, before seeing that Romanova had worked her way free of Yelena's careful knots rather than breaking the ropes altogether. Then Romanova was on top of her, her exposed eyes bright with anger and something else Yelena couldn't place.

"I told you," she said, and hearing the tone of her voice, Yelena could place the unidentifiable emotion: sorrow. "You're too naive and trusting for this line of work."

Yelena had the PSM in her hands before Romanova kicked it out of them, then brought her fist around and connected it solidly with Yelena's temple.

Blackness.

* * *

  
The only thing Romanova left behind was a few spots of blood that could have come from anybody. Yelena saat on the bed and stared at them for a long time before rising and going to the bathroom, clutching the knife in her hand.

Staring into the mirror, she whispered, "My name is Yelena Belova."

She carved a line on her face, in the same place she had sliced open Romanova's, with the knife still crusted with Romanova's blood. It mingled with hers, bonding them even closer, closer than sisters, closer than lovers. Enemies. Forever. The Black Widow, both of them. Forever.


End file.
